Taylor Davis and the Flame of Findul (Taylor Davis, 1)

by Michelle Isenhoff

  I didn’t like the apologetic tone in his voice. “And what reason would that be?” I probed.

  He shifted his weight and twitched his shoulder in that annoying way he had. “Because nobody really knows where Findul is.”

  Lesson #9

  Always Carry a Flashlight in Church Basements

  “What?!” I shouted.

  “Keep your voice down,” Ranofur grunted, surveying our surroundings.

  “What?!” I whispered. “What do you mean no one knows where Findul is? I thought the point of this mission was to visit his forge and relight the sword.”

  “It is,” Mike hastened to explain. “But first we have to find him.”

  “They didn’t state that very clearly in our job description, did they?” I spat. “How did you find this out?”

  He scoffed, “Give me a computer and enough time and I can learn anything.”

  “All right,” I demanded, “let’s have the details.”

  “There isn’t much to tell. Findul was granted a few decades’ holiday after guarding the tree. Then he was tasked with finding a suitable location to relight his forge in preparation for the day his handiwork would again be needed. He hasn’t been heard from since.”

  I spun to face Ranofur. “Did you know this?”

  “No,” he answered with infuriating calmness. “I haven’t seen Findul for a few centuries, but that sounds just like him. His forge is his passion. He tends to get caught up in his work and forgets all else. The brass had talked of getting him a secretary.”

  I stared at the two of them in disbelief for a full twenty seconds. “I guess maybe they should have.” Then, like it was their fault, I turned my back and shoved my ear buds back in my ears.

  We arrived in Luxet fifty minutes later. It consisted of a stone church, a graveyard, an inn, and seven small cottages, most of them thatched. A herd of cows milled between the buildings, and one lone rooster perched on the welcome sign at the edge of town. Elena promptly sat down and pulled off her boots. “Unless we get a horse, I’m trading these in for sneakers first chance I get.”

  Mike motioned toward the graveyard. “Let’s see what we can find. Check the farthest edges. They’ll be the oldest.” We all followed, Elena mincing along behind in her stocking feet.

  I tried again. “My shoes and the makeup case for your boots and bag?”

  She thought harder this time, but still turned me down.

  The graveyard was small and almost as old as the hillside it was located on. “Whew!” Elena whistled. “Look at this.” She scraped the moss off an ancient headstone. I peered over her shoulder and was unable to make out any words, but apparently she could read it. “This stone was placed here four centuries ago.”

  “Some of these graves are far older than that,” Mike said. “Luxet dates back to the time of William the Conqueror in the eleventh century. In the thirteen hundreds, the Black Death wiped out half the town. We should be able to find something marked Swain.”

  “Here,” Ranofur called, gesturing us to join him in an overgrown corner. We gathered around a marble statue of an angel perched in a cluster of headstones, obviously a family plot. Most of the writing was obliterated by years of erosion, but the angel still held the Swain family name. So did a large granite slab, decorated with a small engraving of a dolphin within a triangle. The former dated to 1679, the latter, to 1689.

  “The years are right in the range Davy gave us,” I said. “Do you think one of them could be his?”

  “He can’t die,” Elena pointed out.

  “Most likely they’re the graves of his parents or siblings,” Mike remarked. “But this tells us we’re on the right path. Let’s see if the church still holds any old records.”

  The church was blocky and square, with a steeple that pointed skyward like a guidepost for the dead buried all around it. It was built of rough-hewn rock that had blackened with age and was roofed with wooden shakes. As we entered, our footsteps whispered among the rafters. The interior smelled of mildew and the sweet decay of old wood. I shivered, and not just from the cold.

  “You can almost picture the dead laid out in rows after the plague, can’t you?” Elena whispered.

  “May I help you?” The deep voice came from directly behind me. I let out a sharp yelp and Elena giggled nervously. A thin man with iron gray hair and a cloak of dark wool had followed us into the church. He could have passed for an undertaker, or one of the creepy villains in old Scooby-Doo cartoons.

  The man introduced himself. “I am Father Acker, rector of this parish. I saw you enter town and thought I might be of assistance.” He smiled in a curious sort of way as he looked over Mike’s outfit. “We don’t get too many visitors out this way. Are you Americans?”

  “Indeed,” Mike pretended, shaking the man’s hand. “And we could use some help. I’m Theodore, this is my brother, Samson, our children Clyde and Maria. We’re doing some research on our family history. I believe a few of our ancestors rest within your cemetery.”

  I wondered how Mike could lie so blatantly standing inside a church, but I guess you can get away with that when you’re working undercover. The alternative would get far too complicated.

  The rector’s smile broadened. “I see. And what is the surname?”

  “Swain.”

  “Ah, yes. A notable family within parish history. In my forty years at this location, I’ve come across the name several times.”

  “Then the church still contains records that date to the seventeenth century?” Mike asked.

  “Oh my, they date back farther than that. This parish was founded in 1278. Follow me and we’ll see what we can uncover.”

  I fell into step behind him and sneered over my shoulder, “Come on, Dad.”

  The rector led us down a stairway that violated every building code enacted since the Middle Ages and into a narrow stone corridor as black as pitch. “Electricity was run to the sanctuary soon after I arrived, but not to the basement,” he apologized as he removed a lantern from a hook on the wall. The candlelight flickered on the dank walls and birthed shadows that oozed along behind us like pools of liquid ink.

  We entered a room with a low arched ceiling and shelf upon shelf of old volumes. “Here we are,” he announced, setting the lantern on an antique trestle table and lighting a pair of candelabras. I could almost imagine the ghosts of long dead scholars scratching away with quill pens.

  Mike was examining the bookshelves with keen interest. I’m sure he would have loved to digitize the whole collection. “You’re very organized,” he said admiringly, fingering a pile of loose-leaf documents.

  “Parish history is something of a hobby of mine,” Father Acker said. “I’ve read through most of the manuscripts you see here and categorized them by subject and century. Ah, let’s see. What you’re looking for should be right about—here.” He scooped up a box labeled “1600’s” and brought it to the table. Mike was eyeing it like a seagull hovering over a kindergarten picnic.

  “You’ll be very careful, won’t you?” the rector pleaded.

  “Fastidious,” Mike assured him.

  “Then you could probably start with this record of marriages, births, and deaths.”

  Elena and I perched on either side of Mike as he paged through the ancient volume. Ranofur was content to let Mike work. He scanned the room’s perimeter as we scrutinized the column of names and dates, but as far as I could see, there was only one way in and out.

  “There’s our boy!” Mike burst out after fifteen or twenty minutes. With his finger, he underscored the name Bartholomew Swain handwritten in fading black script. “We’ve found him.”

  “Ah,” Father Acker said, reading over his shoulder, “then you’re already familiar with our most notorious son.”

  Ranofur leaned forward ominously, warning Mike not to reveal too much.

  “Er, we’ve run across stories,” Mike backpedaled.

  “Then you probably know the accounts of piracy and villainy in
his youth.” The man laughed, misunderstanding Mike’s sudden panicked expression for guilt. “Oh, don’t be embarrassed, Mr. Swain. You have no more control over your family history than you have over the weather. At least your forebear outgrew his juvenile behavior and became a respectable member of the parish.”

  Four sets of questioning eyes landed on Father Acker at the same time.

  “Oh yes,” he continued, “Bartholomew Swain became quite a friend to this church. He made several significant financial contributions. In fact, he paid for the construction of this building after the original burned to the ground.”

  Ranofur cleared his throat. “We weren’t aware of Bartholomew’s change of fortune. What happened?”

  “I don’t know, exactly,” the man said, thumbing through a second volume, “but his name appears in the financial ledger several times. You see?”

  Starting in the year 1686, Bartholomew’s name spotted the pages regularly.

  “It seems Mr. Swain became quite wealthy. I can’t be certain, but I believe he established a business through which he continued to bequeath money after his death. You can see he tithed regularly until 1693, but after that date, gifts in the same amount and at the same intervals are credited to Morgen’s of London.”

  “Are you certain he died that year?” Elena asked.

  “No, I’m only assuming he did because his name never appears again.”

  “So he isn’t buried in your churchyard?”

  “No. There is no record that he ever returned to the parish. He did replace his parents’ tombstones several years after they passed. You may have seen them.”

  “The angel?” I asked.

  “His mother’s grave. Also the burial vault for his father marked with a large granite slab.”

  “Then he probably wasn’t in residence in your parish at the time of his death,” Elena surmised. “Do you have any idea where he lived?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, but judging from the ledger, I’d guess London.”

  “How long did Morgen’s continue to make contributions?” Ranofur asked.

  “Well, let’s see here.” Father Acker ran his finger down the figures on the pages. “It looks like the last one was made in 1699, the same year the church was completed.”

  The muffled sound of children’s laughter echoed down the corridor, sounding faint and far away. “Oh dear,” Father Acker murmured. “Will you excuse me? My grandchildren are here on holiday. I’m afraid they may have followed me into the church.”

  “Of course,” Elena replied. “Thank you so much for your help.”

  “My pleasure.” He picked up the lantern. “If you finish before I return, guide yourselves out with the candelabras and leave them on the ledge at the foot of the stairs.”

  When he was gone, we exchanged significant glances. “Looks like our search is leading us in an unexpected direction,” Ranofur rumbled.

  Mike flipped open his laptop. “We already know from Davy that Swain was born around 1652. The ledger confirms that. He supposedly dropped out of knowledge in 1684, but now we know that’s not true.” He read aloud what he typed. “1679—mother’s death; 1689—father’s death; 1686—year gifts to church began; 1693—year Morgen’s gifts began; 1699—year the church was finished and all contributions end.”

  He looked up. “Do we also know what year Swain purchased the new tombstones?”

  “What does that matter?” I asked.

  “It probably doesn’t, but I like to be thorough.”

  Elena found it. “1693.”

  Mike’s laptop clicked shut and he stuffed it in his jacket. “Next stop, London,” he announced. “Let’s get this stuff put back on the shelf. Then I need a satellite signal to check out this Morgen’s—”

  He was interrupted by a low, groaning whisper that echoed off the stones in the corridor and agitated the candles. The air shook with the sound of a heavy boom. Ranofur tensed, his hand sneaking into his mace pocket while I exchanged a nervous glance with Elena.

  A moment later, the room plunged into darkness.

  Episode 3

  Lesson #10

  Three-Wheeled Cat Cages Are Just as Uncomfortable as They Look

  Nobody moved. The blackness hung heavy and oppressive, forcing me into my seat, flooding my lungs. My hand groped for my pocket, and I heard the faint ring of steel on steel as my companions also readied their weapons.

  “To the corridor,” Ranofur whispered. “Silently now. I’ll go first.”

  His footsteps made not the slightest whisper. I stood disoriented in the darkness. Moving from that spot seemed like a really bad idea, considering the amount of naked steel surrounding me, but there was no way I was getting left in that basement by myself. I took one tentative step, then two. Skirting the edge of the table, I moved a little more confidently. Then my shin slammed into a chair and sent it screeching across the stone floor.

  I froze. Silence pierced my eardrums as a flash dulls the eyes.

  Someone grabbed me from behind. “Nice one, Davis,” Elena breathed.

  I let my breath out in a slow stream. Even at risk of our lives, Elena had to get that jab in. I graciously forgave her and clutched her arm in a death grip. Together we inched toward the corridor.

  I’d never felt darkness so alive, so threatening. It pulsated around me in a menacing emptiness, the very essence of madness. But for the touch of Elena’s arm, I could have been floating apart from time and space. Hysteria bubbled in my stomach and began the short climb to my vocal cords. We were at the mercy of a vast, aggressive nothingness.

  The scurry of tiny feet brought the silence back within earthly bounds. I focused on it, willing down my panic. A soft step, the whisper of clothing—I wasn’t alone in the void.

  The drawn out moan of a door opening reverberated in the stillness. Soft treads descended the steps. “Are you folks still down here?”

  We let our breath out in a collective sigh of relief.

  “Sorry about that. My grandson swung the door shut.”

  Our frantic rush to conceal all weapons before the circle of lantern light descended on us was similar to the way Dad and I blew through the house when Mom pulled into the driveway unexpectedly after a weekend away. We made it. Barely.

  “There you are. I see the shock wave put the candles out. It’s been known to happen,” Father Acker chuckled. “Gets blacker than the belly of a whale down here. Did you finish your research?”

  Mike recovered first. “We did, thank you. But I’m afraid we were unable to return the records to the shelf before—” He gestured to the darkness.

  Father Acker waved him away. “I’ll clean it up later. I expect you’re all ready to return to the land of the living.”

  Walking up that stairway was exactly like ascending from a tomb. As we left the church, I sucked in deep, clean breaths, blessed the light of day, and made up my mind not to die for a really long time.

  Unfortunately, I wouldn’t go a day before someone challenged that decision.

  ****

  Staying in the Luxet Inn was similar to visiting my grandmother’s house. It had the same antique bedsteads, the same battered furnishings, the same knick-knacky décor, only Grandma paid a fortune for hers. The inn’s, I’m pretty sure, originated with the building—around the time Noah stepped off the ark.

  The proprietress dated to about the same year. She was a kindly old lady with as many animals as Noah, most of which meowed and wore sweaters in bright primary colors. The place reeked of them.

  The woman’s face wrinkled with pleasure when Mike paid her for all four of her guestrooms. “Thank you, dearie,” she beamed, stuffing the money down the front of her shirt. “I do enjoy meeting folks from abroad. American?” she asked, eyeing Mike’s outfit.

  Why was it, I wondered, that every European assumed the guy dressed like a box of Crayola’s was American? That angel was giving us a seriously bad rap.

  “I think it’s wonderful that you’ve chosen to r
eflect your cultural heritage,” she assured him, patting his hand. “My name is Myrtle. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to make your stay more comfortable.”

  “There is something,” he stated. “We came without food. Is it possible to purchase our supper?”

  Myrtle beamed, as though the pleasure of cooking for guests was something she rarely experienced. “Supper will be served at seven sharp. I promise a local favorite.”

  Those last words frightened me just a little. I hoped I wouldn’t regret not stocking my backpack with Snickers bars.

  After shooing the cats out of our own rooms, Elena and I joined Mike in his. He sat, as usual, with his nose in his laptop, his hat tossed carelessly on a nearby chair. Ranofur prowled outside, checking the layout of the place.

  “Learn anything?” Elena asked, sitting cross-legged on the edge of the bed.

  “No leads on Morgen’s yet,” Mike answered. “Although a Morgen, of course, was a beautiful water spirit of Welsh and Breton mythology that lured men to their deaths.”

  I sprawled out on the squeaky mattress with my arms crossed under my head. “That sounds morbid enough to suit Swain. We shouldn’t expect he’d name his business after something as pleasant as unicorns or Easter bunnies.” I sat up abruptly. “Morgens aren’t real, are they?”

  “Not as the legends describe them.”

  I sank down again.

  “They’re really Wasitters.”

  I moaned. “How soon before we get to meet one of those?”

  “We won’t, if we stay off the water.”

  “Morgens sound similar to Greek sirens that lured men with their voices,” Elena mused.

  “Morgens, sirens, selkies, mermaids—they all derive from the Wasitter. They’re shape-shifters, like the Swaug. They can impersonate anything they want. In the days of sail, the shape of a beautiful woman was the surest way to lead a man to death. Nowadays, with shorter voyages and an increase in technology and recording devices, they’re more subtle.”